


Pin-Ups

by CarnwennanB312



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-12 12:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarnwennanB312/pseuds/CarnwennanB312
Summary: Some things never changed.Fifteen years later and they were still a pair of angry orphans looking down on the crowd.So how had they found themselves on opposite sides of the law?Drawing inspiration from the Gotham TV series as well as the comics, Pin-Ups rewrites the Batman and Catwoman origin starting with their tragic childhoods and going until I get bored.





	1. Bridges

“It’s a waste of time,” said Bruce even while he twisted his ten-year-old fingers around the black silk tie that Alfred had set out for him. 

“The Waynes have been patrons of the arts in Gotham for generations. That shouldn’t end with you,” said Alred but Bruce remained unconvinced, his bored expression remaining wholly intact “Besides, the director of the Gotham Ballet was a long-time friend of your mother’s.”

Bruce frowned into the mirror, pointing his annoyance at Alfred by way of reflection. “Your use of my mother’s memory to attempt to manipulate me is extremely transparent.”

Alfred stood straighter, formality doubling as sarcasm being a skill only the butler could master. “Does that mean you won’t be attending the ballet tonight, then?”

Bruce sighed as he pulled the silk into a perfect bow, “Despite my complaints to the contrary, you’re right. Jean Luc was a good friend to my mother and deserves my patronage. But I will NOT enjoy it.”

Alfred chuckled softly as he pulled a long wool coat from the closet, “As you say, Master Bruce.”

“I mean it, Alfred. I hate ballet.”

“I understand, Master Bruce. Still, you should try to enjoy yourself."

Bruce sighed heavily, "Fine."

 

The crowd outside the theatre was buzzing with excitement. Each conversation added new tidbits of information for Bruce to filter through, creating an interesting puzzle despite Bruce's obstinant need to remain aloof.

“Did you hear about Renee?”

“Oh, yes, it was quite tragic!”

“No one expected her to die like that.”

“She seemed so happy!”

“Luckily Jean Luc was able to convince Marie Laurent to be the new prima.”

“Really? He did? I saw her dance in Paris, she’s amazing!”

Bruce sighed heavily as any hope for an entertaining evening quickly died. His interest was utterly decimated the moment the patrons began discussing the new prima ballerina. He could care less that Marie Laurent appeared to defy gravity. 

“Bruce!”

Pasting on a kind smile, Bruce turned toward the effeminate voice that called for him.

“Jean Luc,” Bruce greeted politely.

The thin man radiated an energy that few could muster. It was both intoxicating and exhausting.

“I’m so glad you came to see our winter premiere!” Jean Luc said, clapping his hands together in his excitement.

Bruce allowed the melancholy to invade his features as he replied, “My mother was a great fan of the ballet and always spoke very highly of your productions. I thought coming here tonight would be a good way to honor her memory.”

Jean Luc averted his eyes, hiding his legitimate tears behind flamboyant emotion, “Oh, Bruce! You have no idea what that means to me! Your mother was such a beautiful soul! The theatre hasn’t been the same without her!”

Bruce attempted to smile but he could tell by the way Jean Luc physically startled that he had failed. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry Bruce! I could only imagine how difficult it must be to talk about your parents!”

Taking a fortifying breath, Bruce waved the apology away, “It’s alright.”

“Why don’t I walk you to your seat?” asked Jean Luc even as his eyes searched for any form of escape.

“I’m sure I can find it on my own.”

“Of course! You seem like a very capable young man!” Jean Luc’s hands fluttered like paper in the wind, without thought or purpose, “What about after the ballet? You can come backstage and meet our new Prima Ballerina.”

Bruce smiled politely, “That sounds great.”

“Excellent! I’ll find you after the show,” Jean Luc’s eyes widened as he found his exit in the form of an elderly woman who was handing her lavish fur coat to a waiting attendant. ”Until then, I hope you enjoy it!”

“I’m sure I will,” said Bruce but Jean Luc was already flitting across the room to the chorus of “Mrs. Whetherby!”

As soon as Jean Luc was gone, Bruce allowed himself to frown. Why had he agreed to come here? 

Bruce turned to begin toward the staircase that would take him to his balcony seat but ended up colliding with a young girl. On instinct, he reached out to catch her but she was completely steady. As if she were physically incapable of falling.

Bruce muttered an apology as he withdrew his hands and shoved them into his pockets.

“Quel grand frown,” she said, her accent sliding through his ears like silk across skin.

Bruce’s head snapped up, finding a smile that could only be described with cliche. No other smile could perfectly encapsulate the unrepentant guilt of the cat who had eaten the canary like that of the girl before him.

“No it’s not,” replied Bruce, his frown only deepening.

“But it is!” she pressed, “look how far down it goes!”

She then proceeded to pull the corners of her mouth down in an exaggeration of his facial expression before beaming at him. 

“Why are you frowning?” she asked.

Bruce narrowed his eyes, “Why does it matter to you?”

Her expression changed to puzzled in the span of a heartbeat. She invaded his personal space, closely examining his frown. In response, Bruce leaned backward, nearly losing his balance attempting to escape her scrutiny.

Then, rocking back onto her heels, she snapped her fingers and smiled once more, “J’ai saisi!”

“What?” asked Bruce, slightly alarmed by her excitement.

“You don’t like ballet!” she accused.

“What? I like ballet!” he exclaimed, betraying his lie with the vehemence in his tone, “Why would I be here if I didn’t?”

The girl smiled knowingly, her green eyes far too keen for Bruce’s liking, “It’s okay. I did not like ballet either. That is until I found out about the bridges.”

“Bridges?”

“They have bridges above the seats for the men who control the lights.”

“You mean the catwalks?”

“Oui! It’s the best place to watch ballet!”

She grabbed his hand, pulling him toward a side door. For reasons Bruce couldn’t comprehend, he didn’t resist. He simply stared at their clasped hands in confusion as the girl dragged him toward the ladder.

With each moment, the girl only deepened Bruce’s curiosity. His feet and hands moved of their own volition while his mind cataloged information without his authorization; taking note of the unnatural grace with which she scurried up the rungs and the way her feet moved quickly and silently across the metal walkway. 

A lighting operator noticed them, scowling until the moment the girl flashed him a dazzling smile. The man melted immediately, a soft expression replacing his suspicion.

“Selina, I thought your mother told you not to come up here?”

“It should be our secret, oui?” she asked, the mirth in her voice out of place considering her request, “Because you are my friend, right?”

The operator sighed, “If your mother finds out about this, she’s gonna kill me.”

“Pas vrai. Ma mere wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Selina replied, casually swiping a lock of long dark hair back over her shoulder.

The operator smirked, “True.”

Selina gripped the railing and in a single fluid motion, slid underneath in order to sit on the edge of the platform. Her feet swung back and forth as she turned to Bruce and patted the space beside her in casual invitation.

“Who’s your friend?” asked the operator, his voice becoming suspicious once more.

For the first time, Selina seemed to truly contemplate her actions before turning toward the immobile Bruce with a smile that glowed. “I don’t know. What is your name?”

“Bruce.”

Selina turned to the operator, “His name is Bruce. He doesn’t like ballet.”

“I never said that,” Bruce argued under his breath.

Though Selina had obviously heard him, she ignored it, “I told him that he would like ballet if he saw it from up here.”

The operator shrugged, passing Bruce an apologetic smile, “I can’t argue with that. It’s definitely my favorite seat in the house.”

Selina’s smile returned in stunning fashion, “See Bruce? Come sit, the show is about to begin.”

Sighing, Bruce settled in the spot Selina had indicated just as the conductor motioned for the orchestra to raise their instruments. As the music began, the operator flipped a switch and a single figure was bathed in spotlight. She was thin, giving the impression that she was made of delicate glass. 

Then she moved.

It was like watching water move across the stage, executing complex and graceful motions that seemed impossible. Her flowing white dress floated around her like a wisp of fog that refused to dissipate and her ebony locks defied the laws of physics, behaving more like satin ribbons than hair.

A contented sigh drew Bruce’s attention and he found Selina staring at the dancer in a way that was as unnerving as it was beautiful. Selina seemed to become part of the show, her heart shining through her eyes to become a secondary spotlight.

It wasn’t until the music ended and applause filled the air that Bruce realized he had missed the entire scene.

Selina clapped excitedly before turning to Bruce with glittering eyes and an infectious smile, “C'était magnifique, non?”

Turning back toward the stage, Selina's smile lost some of its brilliance but retained its contagiousness. “Ma mere is the best dancer in the world,” she whispered in awe.

Bruce could not confirm her statement. Not when Selina had so easily eclipsed the performance with her strangely magnetic energy. Yet he could not bring himself to tell her the truth so he settled for something in-between.

“It was beautiful.”

 

Fifteen years later.

Carmine Falcone had only one great love; power. Compared to that, even his family was expendable.

That was why she was going to steal it.

She only needed to hack into his closed communication network and she would know about every shipment, every warehouse, and every dirty little secret.

All it would take was one more line of code.

“Hey! Who the hell are you?”

Selina peered over her shoulder to find a man in a brown, perfectly tailored suit. He had a Glock in his shoulder holster and a colt special strapped to his ankle that marked him as one of Falcone’s guards.

Selina wanted to curse but she smiled instead, typing the final command before slowly unfolding her lithe form so that she could show the guard exactly who she was. A woman, clad in a tight black suit that left very little unimaginable.

“I’m whoever you want me to be,” she purred.

The guard visibly swallowed, “What were you doing on the boss’ computer?”

Before the man even knew what was happening, Selina was pressed up against him and her hands were snaking around his neck. She breathed in his ear, her voice becoming as smooth as perfectly aged scotch, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

He was putty in her hands, his muscles relaxing against her.

Then he shook his head, dispelling all thoughts of ecstasy and replacing them with the strength of duty. He pushed her away so forcefully that she stumbled but she didn’t remain off-balance for long.

With a single swipe, Selina lashed out with her razor-sharp claws. Her fury in the tearing of his flesh.

“Ahhhggg! My face!” yelled the guard as blood streamed into his eyes. He pressed his hands to the slashes, desperately trying to staunch the flow. “I- I CAN’T SEE!”

Yells of alarm rose through the building, bringing forth a wave of soldiers prepared to protect their heartless leader. Selina’s act of rage left her with only one means of escape; an unlocked window that led out on to the Roman’s garden terrace.

Unfortunately, the Roman had chosen that particular evening to use the rooftop pool. The terrace was filled with guards, each one waiting for her with drawn weapons and unshakable loyalty.

Even Falcone himself was there, a towel wrapped around his waist and a knife in his hand.

“Wait!” he yelled to his guards, his eyes scanning her from toe to head and finally settling on the cat ears built into her cowl. The ears were symbolic, a reminder of the woman she used to be before tragedy forced her to return to a life of crime.

Yet Falcone saw them in a completely different light.

“She’s with the Batman! I want her alive!” Falcone’s face turned dark, the shadows revealing him for the villain he truly was, “Alive, and in pain.”

Unsheathing her claws, Selina leaped at the nearest guard. It was a deadly pounce that found the man on his back, his gun skidding across the ground as Selina drug her claws deep into his chest. His screams of agony followed her as she performed a back handspring, landing in a crouch.

Selina's devilish smile beckoned her next target forward, bringing him within range of a backward kick to the chest. He stumbled, his gun flying out of his hand, but just as Selina was about to sweep his legs, he hissed. Cupping his neck, the guard’s eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed.

Metal sliced the air and each guard fell, one after the other like dominoes until even Falcone and his disgusting nephew were on the ground.

“Thanks for wasting my time,” said a gravely, albeit livid, voice from the darkness.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” she hissed.

His only answer was the sound of snapping fabric and the silhouette of a flying bat against the skyline.

Once the figure had disappeared into the darkness, Selina scanned the scene before her. Kneeling, she checked the pulse of one of the guards and found it beating steadily.

Tranquilizer. A good one judging by the way Falcone remained completely immobile a few feet from her.

He was so helpless, crumpled on the cobblestones like an abandoned toy. If only the people of the city could see him like this maybe they would understand that Falcone was only a man. A mortal being, not the untouchable emperor he made himself out to be.

Inspiration struck, bringing a dark smile to Selina's lips as she extended her claws.

Touchable. Yes, Falcone was touchable. 

And now the whole world would know it.


	2. Windows

It had become routine. This game that had been both his bane and pleasure for the past few years.

He searched the sea of royal blue cardigans in search of inky black hair and intelligent green eyes.

Then a finger tapped him on the shoulder.

He spun to find her standing there, her mischievous smile mocking him even more than her victory statement.

Bruce shook his head, attempting to dislodge the tick at the corner of his mouth that wanted to smile back at her, “Your last class is on the third floor and there are only two exits. There’s no way I wouldn’t have seen you leave.”

Selina rocked forward, balancing on her toes, “You forgot about the window.”

“The window?” Bruce replied with a scoff, “All the school’s windows are locked.”

Her smile fell into a playful smirk, “Easily fixed with a paperclip and an art knife.”

Crossing his arms, Bruce regarded her with all the authority of a disappointed parent. “You picked the lock.”

She was completely unapologetic, nodding at his accusation as if he'd just asked her about the weather, “Oui.”

“That’s against school rules.”

At that, Selina’s smile disappeared, “No one was harmed so why does it matter?”

“Rules are important, Selina. They’re what separate us from the animals.”

Selina rolled her eyes, “You’re just mad because you lost.”

“You cheated.”

Something about Bruce’s statement brought a chuckle to Selina’s lips. It was an infectious sound, returning that damnable twitch to the corner of his mouth once more.

“It really doesn’t matter, does it?” she said, walking toward the parking lot and waving for Bruce to follow, “What matters is that Alfred is waiting for us.”

Sighing, Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets and lengthened his strides until he fell into step beside her.

“Are we dropping you at the studio?” he asked a few footsteps later.

“No, Nutcracker rehearsals don’t start until next week.”

“Then are we taking you home?”

She shook her head, “Ma mere has a dinner at a patron’s house tonight.”

“I see,” he replied, being sure to keep the delight from his voice, “Then what would you like to do this evening? I could help you study for the biology exam.”

Selina sighed, her smile slowly dying as the conversation continued, “The exam isn’t for another two weeks. Studying now is pointless.” She pulled Bruce to a stop, turning him so that their eyes met, “Could we just, read? You know, like we used to?”

The plea in her voice threw him off-kilter, betraying his confusion in the overt furrowing of his brow, “Sure, but why?”

Averting her eyes, she tried to hide her melancholy but failed.

“Selina?”

She took a fortifying breath, “Mon pere is coming here tomorrow.”

Bruce blinked slowly, “Your father? I thought you hadn't seen him in years?”

Selina shrugged, not answering the question overtly but with her expression. She wasn’t happy to see her father again. She was angry. Bruce could understand that.

“What do you want me to read?”

Selina looked up, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and gratitude. Bruce allowed himself a smile to put her at ease. She returned it, the familiar light returning to her features.

Turning, Selina started toward the parking lot once more. The bounce had returned to her step but her voice continued to hold that slight tremble of enmity, “Fairytales.”

Bruce grimaced, “Why?”

Chuckling at his expression, Selina looked longingly up at the sky, “Because they always end with ‘happily ever after’.”

 

THE CATWOMAN STRIKES AGAIN

The headline brought a renewed annoyance to Bruce’s chest. 

Batman had worse criminals to fight but the Catwoman would have to be dealt with eventually. It was easy to ignore her when she was just stealing from mobsters but her targets had slowly gotten bigger. Her heist at the Gotham Art Museum was only the latest in a string of ostentatious thefts that left the city wondering if anything was sacred anymore.

The light clatter of the tray announced Alfred’s arrival in the cave, the butler managing to always appear whenever Bruce found himself in need of a sounding board.

“Hmmm, this Catwoman has grown quite brazen, hasn’t she?”

“Yeah,” replied Bruce, tapping keys in order to bring up the open case file from GCPD, “what’s strange is that she got into the museum without setting off a single alarm. That is until she reached the front door.”

He brought up the surveillance footage where Catwoman was literally home-free, walking out with a rolled up painting before she suddenly stopped. Turning, she looked directly at the camera and blew it a kiss.

“She's baiting someone.”

Alfred hummed thoughtfully, “You think she’s trying to get Batman’s attention?”

“No, this feels far more personal. Whoever she's after, they have a vested interest in the items she takes.”

Alfred leaned forward, looking closely at the accompanying list of missing items.

“A set of diamond earrings worth less than a thousand, the contents of a safety-deposit box valued at three-hundred, even the painting she stole wasn’t the most expensive one in the gallery, valued at only twenty-thousand. Yes, very strange indeed.”

Alfred’s observations ignited a spark in Bruce’s mind.

A few commands brought up an image of the stolen painting. The artist was unknown, making the piece virtually worthless save for its subject matter. It depicted the Paris skyline, though not the one known to most. It was a view from a rooftop overlooking the Seine but painted in different warm shades, orange being the most prevalent. In the middle ground stood a single figure, a woman in grey without any discernible features but with an unmistakable energy. She stood at the very edge of the rooftop, her arms outstretched as if she were about to take flight.

Something about it seemed familiar but he couldn’t place it in any specific context.

“It is a beautiful painting, I’ll give her that much.”

“Yeah, it is.”


	3. Glass

“...He heard a voice, and it seemed so familiar to him that he went towards it, and when he approached, Rapunzel knew him and fell on his neck and wept. Two of her tears wetted his eyes and they grew clear again, and he could see with them as before. He led her to his kingdom where he was joyfully received, and they lived for a long time afterward, happy and contented.”

Selina sighed happily, lounging on the loveseat with her eyes closed. She looked for all-the-world like an overly-pampered cat, content to simply lie in the late fall sunlight that filtered through the window. 

Bruce sat across from her, letting the book of Grimm Fairy Tales rest in his lap as he watched Selina bask in the peace of Wayne Manor's library.

“Sometimes I wish I lived in a fairy tale,” said Selina cheerily, 

Bruce scoffed and rolled his eyes, “Why? They’re filled with misery. Look at poor Rapunzel, forced into isolation and servitude before being separated from her husband for years. It's tragic.”

Selina let her head roll to the side so that she could pass him a smirk, “Oui, but everything works out in the end. Life doesn’t offer such guarantees.”

A familiar pain stabbed Bruce in the chest, forcing him to agree with Selina’s logic. Real life was filled with just as much tragedy as a fairytale, albeit without the "happily ever after".

“Miss Kyle?” said Alfred as he came to stand in the doorway, “It's getting late. We'd best take you home.”

Stretching, Selina rolled into a sitting position and unfolded herself from the deep cushions, “I'll gather my things.”

Alfred simply bowed his head in acknowledgment before turning on his heel and leaving.

Bruce and Selina passed each other a knowing look before Selina went to retrieve her book bag from its haphazard spot next to the writing desk. Bruce made his way toward the coat closet, removing Selina’s ivory cashmere coat from the rack and holding it out for her to slip her arms into. Once she was taken care of, he found his own wool coat and pulled it on, leaving the collar up in order to block the harsh wind that howled past the manor walls.

“Did you have a scarf?” he asked her as he noticed the rather low collar of her coat.

Selina waved away his concern, “I’ll be fine without one.”

Pointedly ignoring her reassurances, Bruce retrieved his own crimson scarf and held it out to her. She rolled her eyes in exasperation but took it anyway, winding it around her neck as she followed him down the front steps and toward the waiting car.

The snow blew past the windows, turning to water as soon as it hit the glass. Selina watched it fall as they descended the Palisade hills into the shining lights of uptown, a strange look on her face.

"What's wrong?" Bruce asked, forcefully breaking the uncomfortable silence that was filling the vehicle.

"My father," she replied with a defeated sigh, explaining everything with two words.

"Is he back?"

She shook her head, "No, he's actually in prison now."

"Prison? Why?"

Selina passed Bruce a sideways look that challenged his question despite already answering it, "You remember reading about the Rembrandt painting that went missing from the auction house last year?"

"Yeah?"

Selina's smirk was dark and dangerous, changing her from the sixteen-year-old girl he had come to know so well to an unapologetic predator. "It went missing the same day my father disappeared again."

Bruce averted his eyes as the picture became clear. Her father was a thief.

Luckily Bruce was saved from inadvertently putting words to his revelation when the car stopped outside of Selina's apartment building.

Alfred squinted out the window and toward the frosted glass doors.

“Strange,” he noted, “Where is Reggie?”

The doorman, a hefty man with pockets full of chocolate wasn’t set to be relieved until eight. He should have been standing under the awning, ready to welcome Selina home. Instead, the front of the building was left unattended.

Selina leaned toward the car door, ready to push it open, “Don’t worry, Alfred, he’s probably just helping someone to their door with their shopping.”

“It’s possible, still,” Alfred turned around in his seat, the corners of his mouth falling, “Master Bruce, would you escort Miss Kyle to her apartment? I don’t like the idea of sending her up there alone.”

Bruce nodded, sliding across the leather seats to follow Selina.

Lengthening his stride, he moved past her in order to hold open the lobby door. Nodding her thank you, Selina stepped into the building. 

Her frown spoke volumes as she scanned the completely empty space. Even the concierge was absent, his desk left without so much as a “be back soon” sign.

“Strange,” Selina murmured.

Bruce had to agree, the air of the building made the hair on the back of his neck rise and an unsettling feeling bloom between his ribs.

Pushing it aside, Bruce pressed the button for the elevator. It seemed like an eternity before the doors slid open and the two stepped inside.

Selina's arms were poised as if she was about to take flight and she stared blankly ahead, making the elevator ride extremely tense.

Then the doors slid open, revealing white furniture and glass tables complemented by shades of grey and lavender, giving the front room a modern elegance befitting a woman of culture like Marie Laurent.

“Something’s wrong,” Selina whispered as she scanned the room.

To Bruce, nothing appeared amiss but then again, this wasn’t his home. 

"How can you tell?"

“The irises are missing.”

“What?”

Selina pointed toward one of the end tables, its glass surface barren. “Irises are ma mere’s favorite flower. I brought her some from the corner stand two days ago. She put them in a vase on that table. Now they’re gone.”

Bruce stepped toward the table and was disturbed to find a barely-visible ring where water had hardened.

“Maybe your mother moved it?” he asked.

Selina nodded vehemently, already heading toward the hallway “Oui. Tu as raison.”

Bruce pulled her to a stop. Her default to French was telling but her trembling hands were the most cause for concern. His questioning eyes forced her to blink and take a steadying breath. 

“I’m alright,” she said, straightening in order to call down the main hall calmly, “Maman? Etes-vous ici?”

There was no answer.

Selina's footsteps were light and completely silent as she moved into the hall and pushed open the door to her mother’s room.

Then she screamed.

Bruce rushed forward, reaching to steady Selina as she stumbled backward.

“Selina? What-”

There was no point in finishing the question as he turned his head to find a ghastly scene laid out before him.

Red, splattered across the pristine white of the soft bedspread.

Ripping her arm from Bruce's comforting grip, Selina rushed into the room and fell to her knees beside the bed.

Her mother’s unblinking eyes pointed toward the ceiling in utter terror while a single hole in the middle of her forehead marked the path of a bullet.

It was grotesque but Bruce couldn’t look away, raptured by the scene that was both familiar and yet completely alien. Selina took her mother’s hand, dislodging a small pistol and allowing it to clatter to the floor.

“Maman, wake up. Please, wake up,” Selina begged.

Phantom pains that burrowed through Bruce's chest.

Gunshots and screams echoed in his ears along with the voice of his eight-year-old self.

Mom, please, wake up.

 

A view of Gotham City painted in long brush strokes and warm hues, orange being the dominant color. Yet the skyline itself was cold. Grey, blue and black created the silhouettes of that familiar perspective, reminiscent of a rooftop view at sunrise. The contrasting warmth of the sun that turned the city into a haven for creeping shadows.

“Bruce? Did you hear a word I just said?”

He had, listening to her drone on about the work of some up and coming artist with the back of his mind while he watched the puzzle of Catwoman come together before his eyes.

He waved his champagne glass in the direction of the painting, letting the liquid slosh and his words slur, “Who did this one?”

The woman beside him turned to him with a sneer, “Does it matter? It’s trash. Look at the brushwork and the color. Completely uninspired.”

Bruce leaned forward, making a show of squinting his eyes at the piece, “I like the colors.”

"You wouldn't if you weren't drunk," hissed his date.

Straightening unsteadily, Bruce snapped his fingers, “You know what? I’ll take it!”

“You have a good eye, Mr. Wayne.” The lilting voice from behind filled Bruce with an anger he thought he had buried a long time ago. An anger felt on behalf of someone he hadn’t seen in a long time. “But this painting isn't for sale.”

Bruce spun around, pasting a goofy smile on his face as he pretended to wobble from the momentum, “Surely an exception can be made. Just name your price.”

The man smirked, his green eyes far too familiar for comfort, “Sorry mate, but this piece is outside even your reach.” Moving forward, the man’s thin frame easily fit in the gap between Bruce and his latest consort, allowing him direct access to the painting. 

He gazed longingly up at the painting, years of regret seeping through his eyes. “I could never part with this particular painting as it holds a very special place in my heart. You see, it was painted by my son-in-law just before he died.”

“You have a daughter?” asked Bruce, adding a note of scandal to his voice that earned him a glare from his date and perfectly concealed the real reason he was so curious.

Banishing his complex emotions, the man turned to Bruce with his hands clasped behind his back, “I do. In fact, I think you know her.”

"Oh yeah? What's her name?"

"Selina Kyle."


	4. Gone

Alfred stood back, watching Bruce and Selina as they stood on the tarmac. Their shoulders barely touched, maintaining that innocent contact as they waited. 

Sitting on the ground to Selina’s right was a single, large, suitcase.

Bruce was dressed in the traditional black coat and slacks but Selina wore a yellow dress under her grey coat. When Alfred had complimented her dress she had promptly told him that she hated the color. He hadn’t inquired further. He’d come to know the girl well enough to understand her choice. The yellow was silent defiance, a yell that told anyone who knew her that she was facing a perceived injustice. Deportation back to France was too harsh a sentence for the crime of becoming an orphan.

Even her long black hair rebelled. The howling wind picked up stray pieces from her tight ponytail and pulled them into her face. Her face, once soft with the glow of childhood, seemed to have aged five years, turning her high cheekbones into an edge sharp enough to cut.

Only one item spoke to her need for comfort. The crimson scarf that had once belonged to the boy beside her, wrapped around her neck.

The sounds of forced air reached their ears as a small and sleek machine taxied out of the hangar to where the maintenance staff waited to do final checks. The Wayne Industries logo was emblazoned on its side.

“I wanted to visit Paris in the spring,” Selina said in a near whisper, “The city is beautiful during the winter though. Everything turns white and soft.”

Bruce idly kicked at a pebble with his toe, “I’ve seen it.”

Selina nodded, her face impassive, “I used to go up on the roof of the house and watch the snow fall over the city at night.”

The plane stopped in front of them, the passenger door opening. 

Bruce turned his back to the sight, “Be safe, Selina.”

Whirling, she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to a stop. He turned to her, his eyes glistening despite his careful control.

Her gaze was filled with fear. Until this moment, he had believed she was intrepid. The girl who danced on catwalks and jumped from windows. The girl who refused to walk on eggshells.

Instinct took him over and he enveloped her in his arms. She pressed her face to his chest, letting everything she had kept carefully buried the last three weeks fall out of her.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered past the thickness of her tears.

“You won’t be, Selina. Not for long. Not you.”

“How do you know?”

He pulled back and looked at her for a long moment. She waited patiently for an answer, looking at him with wide eyes. Finally, he spoke, brushing a lock of errant black hair from her cheek.

“Personal experience.”

The corner of Selina’s mouth rose in a semblance of a smile and Bruce mirrored it back at her.

Alfred cleared his throat for more reasons than just to get their attention.

Bruce sighed heavily and took a large step back. 

“It’s time for you to go,” he said in a low tone.

Selina blinked a few times as the weight of the words settled on her shoulder.

“This is goodbye then,” she whispered.

He shook his head, his mouth set in a hard line. “No. C’est au revoir.”

Selina’s smiled without the expression actually gracing her lips, “Until we see each other again, Bruce.”

Leaning forward, she kissed him on the cheek and then turned away.

She boarded the plane without looking back yet Bruce watched her the entire way, never blinking until the plane had disappeared into the clouds.

Alfred stepped forward, looking at the boy from the corner of his eyes.

Bruce’s face was filled with the ghosts of everyone he’d lost, every tragedy adding another black mark to his soul.

Scared for the young man, Alfred put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Bruce shrugged it off. 

Alfred could almost hear the thoughts running through Bruce’s mind. Meeting Selina had been a cruel twist of fate but it was his actions after that which caused the deep pain in his chest.

Becoming her friend had been a blessing but loving her had been a mistake.

 

Batman sat atop the piled shipping containers, his vigilant eyes narrowed on the men below. The men’s orders had been simple. Unload the guns from the shipping container and into the truck then take them to the warehouse on fifth.

It was unfortunate for the men that their goals were contrary to Batman’s. It would mean their ultimate failure.

Carefully, Batman dropped behind one of the guards who watched the area furthest from the others. With one fluid motion, he was silenced.

Moving closer, Batman ducked into the shadows and took stock of the scene. It didn’t take him long to formulate a plan of attack.

Swooping into action, he took down the closest gangster with the heel of his hand. Next, he swung forward, performing a bicycle kick that sent a second guard flying. The third and fourth guards aimed weapons at him but the shadows shielded him from precision shots. With his grappling gun, he pulled one weapon away before jumping from cover to grab the barrel of the second gun. It fired into the ground as Batman forced the gangster’s aim downward. He brought an elbow down on the disarmed gangster before sending the butt of the held weapon into the other gangster’s forehead.

Each foe lay on the ground, some moaning softly while the others were motionless but breathing.

Pressing a button on his belt, Bruce sent a pre-written message to the commissioner to tell him where to find the guns and the thugs.

Opening the shipping container to take stock of the night’s work, Batman found himself frowning.

The shipping container was barren save for one object. A painting of the Paris skyline in warm hues.

Catwoman, Selina, had stolen everything.


End file.
